


A DEEPER SONG

by Wolfiekins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Content, Episode: s12e11 Regarding Dean, Episodic Coda, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Mental Anguish, Minor Angst, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Supernatural Season 12, Wincest - Freeform, established wincest, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 09:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11228022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: Memory is a monster; you forget, it doesn't.  You think you have a memory; but it has you.  Coda for 12x11 "Regarding Dean".





	A DEEPER SONG

**Author's Note:**

> _“Your memory is a monster; you forget, it doesn't. It keeps things for you or hides things from you – and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you.” – John Irving_   
> 
>  _“One of the keys to happiness is a bad memory.” – Rita Mae Brown_  
> 
> For my dearest Kosh, if he wants it.

**_~~~ * March, 2017 * ~~~_ **

 

“Jesus, Dean, that was a shit thing to do,” Sam says, wrapping his long arms around you and hugging you so tight your ribs ache.

But you don't care.

Because you remember.

Everything's a whirlwind blur, and though nothing much makes sense, Sam does.

He _definitely_ does.

'Cause it's Sam's arms around you, all that you've ever needed.

“Ease off, Sasquatch,” you wheeze out, surprised your own arms can't hug your little brother hard enough.

Rowena snorts and throws out a condescending remark which she no doubt considers immensely humorous, but you ignore her.

Sam buries his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hot, his tears hotter still. 

“God dammit, Dean,” your Sammy breathes, pressing himself so fully into you that you feel his hard-on against your belly.

And it's all okay.

Because you remember now.

You remember _him_.

**~~~ * SW-DW * ~~~**

You feel fine, giddy almost, as your memories flow back in, and it's nice'n easy, super reassuring.

It's like flinging a deck of cards to the winds and catching them all again, but you don't even have to look at 'em to put 'em all back into perfect order.

And you're snagging the face cards first, and Sam's on every one of 'em.

You let Sam drive the Impala back to the motel, content to just let your life reassert itself while you not-so-covertly stare across the bench seat as repeating patterns of light and shadow swallow your little brother whole. 

Sam's clearly more than a little concerned, though the wide-eyed glances he flings your way belie something akin to confusion cut through with serious dollops of unmitigated desire.

Does he always look at you like this? 

Another few miles and enough of you falls back into place so that you're sure that he's _always_ pretty much looked at you like this.

It's the crack ass of dawn by the time you hit your motel, and you almost forget that Rowena's been blathering away in the backseat the entire time.

Sam's nothing less than an unhinged dervish, swooping around the room and scooping up stuff, cramming it all into your duffels in record time. 

You watch him intently, taking your cues from him, knowing at once that now's the time and place for you to take control.

“Alright, let's hit it!” you blurt out, your voice altogether alien.

Sam nods, and almost smiles, then he's gone out the door, a duffel slung over each shoulder.

You're vaguely aware of Rowena in your wake, and by the time you reach the Impala, Sam's stowed everything in the trunk and he's at his station, hovering on the passenger side, waiting for you, just like he always does.

You let your mouth run, and what it says makes sense. 

It's reasonable.

 _You're_ reasonable.

And you're pretty sure you're completely honest with Sam, earnestly letting him know that you prefer to be yourself and be with him rather than a trippy spacecase without a history. 

Why would you want it any other way?

You feel so good in fact that you eighty-six the plan to drop Rowena off in Chicago on the way back to The Bunker, ordering up a cab instead, barely keeping the laughter down as Sam shoves her into the backseat amidst a barrage of brogueish protestations.

All you want is to be with your Sam.

And you want him all to yourself.

Sam looks surprised when you hit I-75 instead of sticking to the usual secondary roads, but you don't say a word. 

You wanna get home _fast_. 

_Home_.

Your place with him.

Sam doesn't say anything either, though the briefest bit of confusion ghosts across his features and he smiles, that weird little lopsided one that you suddenly know he saves for you and you alone.

Your little bro waits just long enough for you to reach cruising speed and settle the Impala into the fast lane before he slides across the bench seat, his left arm snaked around your waist, his right hand massaging your thigh, his long fingers working the tight denim, deliberately inching their way up and under your crotch.

You realize it's been a long time since he's done this, like, way too long, and the hows and whys of it don't exactly coalesce in your head, but it's so effin' comfortable, so natural, you keep your mouth shut.

Actually, it's perfect. 

The sun slips down into that narrow gap between some far-off tree line and the oppressive ceiling of grey that passes for sky in winter in the Midwest, bathing the interior of the Impala in the deepest golden crimson you've ever seen. You blink at the brightness, angling the visor as best you can, though the blinding beautiful only lasts a few miles. 

Sam snuggles even closer and you flip on the Audivox, relieved to find a Bon Jovi mixtape firmly ensconced and doing its thing.

“Fuck, Dean, don't ever leave me again,” Sammy says into your chest, and you jam the accelerator down hard. 

The Impala roars and you both sink back into the brittle black vinyl.

**~~~ * SW-DW * ~~~**

The thing is, there are gaps and holes, countless abysses where you know your history's missing, and though it's coming back to you all helter skelter, it's no big deal 'cause the important part, what matters most, is already there.

Sam's your anchor, the foundation of everything else.

It's beginning to slide together, what went down with that little bitch of a witch and his obliviation spell.

And as it all trickled away from you, your life, your everything, it's all coming back now, the last to be lost the first to be recalled.

You couldn't help it, really, busting Sam's eggs. It was the most natural thing in the world, and you did it without even thinking. 

It's your thing.

Yours and Sam's.

And the memories crashed back into you so vivid and perfect, like a hundred sunrises, and then you saw him, your reason for being, your Sam standing there, looking up at you, forehead all wrinkled up, blinking away the tears.

You keep driving and the memories keep on coming, and coming, and your head's starting to ache just the slightest bit as they flood your brain, re-establishing themselves, and they're welcome, mostly, like old friends unseen for an age, though they're a little too insistent, too forceful, and there's something off, something not right about how they _feel_.

About how they _are_.

Things are starting to pile up in your mind, a sort of freight train slide-show, smears of black-and-white and sepia and over-saturated Kodachrome, and you've gotta keep blinking to stem the random blur of images. You focus on Sam, whose hand's deftly unbuckling your belt, then the button of your jeans, and a second later his fingertips slide under the waistband of your boxer briefs, first teasing then torturing your pent up hard-on.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, his tongue tracing a searing line across your jaw. “Dean.”

Your left hand grips the steering wheel, your right slipping away to cup the back of Sam's head, your fingers instinctively burrowing their way through Sammy's unbelievably silky hair.

_How does such a big dude feel so fucking good?_

You search for an answer, but your jumble of a mind fails you.

It feels good, _he's always_ felt good, and that's all that matters.

Sam's head drifts downward, pausing to rest against your belly, and he shifts onto his side, pulling up his long legs and somehow curling himself up on the bench seat. He struggles to yank down the zipper of your jeans, and you shift around, hefting your hips up and spreading your legs apart to make his job easier.

You knew twenty miles ago that Lebanon and The Bunker might as well be light years away, you'll never make it to I-70 at this rate, and the way Sammy's nosing at your hard-on through your boxer briefs, you realize you shoulda stopped at the Super 8 you passed a few exits back.

Not because you want, or _need_ , Sam to suck you off, to take care of you, but because you're supposed to take care of _him_.

It's your job.

It always has been.

And you remember.

**~~~ * SW-DW * ~~~**

Your head's aswirl now, like a mellow beer-buzz threatening to topple over that fine line from most awesome to serious clusterfuck at any second.

You struggle to shove all the other stuff away, focusing on your Sam.

He's fucking gorgeous, and though you're pretty sure you've always known it, that you've felt it deep down in your bones, like forever, your restored memories are painting an altered narrative, a seriously enhanced one, as if the re-integration process is re-mastering everything in ultra-high definition, Blu-Ray glory.

It's fucking awesome, but almost... too bright to stare at for too long. It's starting to hurt in a way you've never felt before, which is really saying something.

But you've gotta handle it.

You're the big brother and that's what you do.

So you pull off the 75 at the next exit advertising 'Lodging', in the middle of by-gawd west central Ohio, landing at a particularly awful, u-shaped horror called _The White Bones Lodge_ , which turns out to be nothing more than a hastily re-painted Ho-Jo.

Sam apparently doesn't give two shits about this development, running a big hand through his hair as you maneuver the Impala under the arched canopy in front of the motel. He stares at you for a long second, his expression asking for permission, or maybe forgiveness. 

You guide the Impala to a stop, and a second later Sam clamps a hand to the back of your neck, bestowing a series of hungry kisses up your neck and along your jawline.

You jam the gearshift into 'Park', jerking your head to ram your lips to Sam's, and you nip and nibble at his bottom lip just like you remember to, and when Sam's tongue tries to force its way into your mouth, you push back with yours, just the way he likes it.

Sam breaks it off, tumbling from the Impala and bounding through the double doors like an overly excited, bi-pedal puppy.

The buzzing fluorescents under the canopy are a perfect counterpoint to the surging wavelengths cascading through your brain, and you're too jacked to just sit there, to just watch Sam through the smudged plate glass, 'cause you want to _be_ with your boy, right _next_ to him, 'cause you haven't been doing that enough lately, so you kill the engine and head into the lobby, yanking at the front of your jeans to get your semi-hard dick back into place.

Sam's not even bothering with aliases as he shoves a handful of twenties at the desk clerk, who's pimply-faced and surly, one earbud loose and dangling, some tinny techno crap wafting over the counter. 

“Don't worry, it gets better,” you quip, and the kid glares at you with such post-teen-angst contempt you barely contain the laughter.

Sam bumps his shoulder to yours, a silent warning, and you know you're grinning like an idiot.

Your cheeks are hot, your lips a little raw from the hungry kisses you'd lavished upon your boy. You struggle to keep a lid on the memory express, but you're getting hard again, and that helps, and your right hand strays up and along Sam's jean-clad thigh, stopping to palm the firm bulge you somehow knew you'd find.

Sam grunts as he scribbles out his signature, actually pressing his groin into your hand, rocking his hips just enough to tell you it's okay.

You remember all the times he's done that little hip thing, that grunt, all the times you'd kissed in The Bunker, each and every memory perfectly restored. 

You find you can recall each instance, the day of the week, the time of day, what Sam smelled like, what he'd been researching, what you'd made for lunch and who'd gone down on who with stunning clarity. And then again all the other times you'd avoided him, locking yourself away in your room, the kick-ass bluetooth headphones Sam bought you churning out your greatest hits while _Speed 2_ unspooled muted on your laptop for the hundredth time.

The lobby tilts for a split second and you think you're gonna hurl, but Sam leans in so close his head's almost touching yours, his whisper ridged with blatant desire. 

“Two Kings right next to the pool.” 

He jiggles the room key, breaking into a smile brighter than any supernova.

You lean into Sam, one arm thrown around his waist, hoping he doesn't notice you're hanging on to keep from kissing the linoleum. 

“You okay?” Sam asks, an eyebrow arched.

“Fuck yeah. Long as I'm with you.”

You bite your bottom lip and Sam smiles, and maybe you'll get to the room before everything swims out again.

It's early March but it's still sorta freezing, and it's a running gag to try to get a room by the pool, if there is a pool, and it's always been your thing to guess just how scummy or green it might be, and Sam's the better guesser on that count, but on those rare occasions when the pool isn't green or cloudy or otherwise totally trashed, it's the best thing ever, 'cause Sam loves stripping down to his boxer briefs and cannonballing right in, splashing around like a total geek, and you love watching that, just as much for how Sam loves doing it, but also for Sam in his drenched Abercrombies and the chlorine-infused nakedness that never fails to follow.

“Pool heater's broken!” Pimply Clerk bleats out before returning to his _Legendary Star-Lord_ comic.

“Fuck it,” you hear yourself say, and Sam tilts his head to the left.

You tilt yours to the right, lean up and kiss your brother again, your right hand sliding down the back of Sam's jeans.

You don't care, because you remember this is how you always wanted it to be.

“Fuck me,” Pimply Clerk says to no one.

**~~~ * SW-DW * ~~~**

You don't give ten shits if anyone sees you with your arm around Sam's waist as you crunch your way across the gravel parking lot. Not that anyone would've known you were brothers, but fuck it, maybe if anyone'd been staring, you'd have yelled it out so they'd known for sure.

You pass the pool, and it's not green. 

You'd have won this one. 

Your head's definitely spinning a little more about now, just like that time with the sprites in Winnemucca, your first solo hunt after Sam'd left for Stanford when you'd decided that guzzling half a bottle of celebratory Jägermeister had been a swift idea. 

Sam unlocks the door to your room, flicks on the light, and the next instant you're shrugging out of your jacket and diving at him, catching him off guard. 

You land on the corner of the nearest bed, and you're on top for barely three and a half seconds before Sam wraps his arms around you and rolls you over and then he's on top, but it's cool and normal and you kiss him again.

Because you remember that you like Sammy on top.

And Sam kisses back, _really_ kisses you, and he's struggling to get his jacket off and keep his mouth on yours, and with a grunt he sits up on his haunches, straddling you, the jacket peeling off those long arms and sailing across the room in the most wondrous arc possible.

Then his mouth's on you again, all needy and hungry, like that time in Connecticut when _he'd_ gotten smashed on Jäger, and Cuervo, and whatever else had been within easy reach. You see it all as if you're there again, your poor, broken-wing Sammy begging you to promise the unthinkable. The memory blazes through your mind, a searing instant replay, and then Sam's nipping at your bottom lip, and his tongue's teasing yours like it always does, more familiar than ever. 

He groans that quavery little groan of his, the one that you've always said was 'girly' but what you _really_ thought was how hot and manly your little bro sounded when he did that, not that you'd ever tell him.

You remember all nights like these, both of you together, a seemingly endless string of grungy motels clinging to every lost highway.

Stained and pocked walls, battered furniture, matted carpets stinking of cigarettes and stale beer.

Dingy bathrooms with cracked tile, leaky faucets and never enough hot water.

But none of it mattered because you had your Sammy.

Despite the lumpy mattresses and paper-thin sheets, your beautiful boy was there with you.

He'd given up even the slightest chance at a normal life to be with you.

Your Sammy'd sacrificed _everything_ for you.

He was willing to die just because he thought he'd failed you.

Because he thought he'd let you down.

You wince at the technicolor memory of your guilt, of driving your boy down such a road, of all the times you'd doubted and discounted him.

“Oh, mother-fuck,” you hear yourself say, and Sam perks up in an instant.

“Dean?”

You nod, try to smile, but you know it comes out wrong when Sam frowns.

“You okay? You're kinda pale.”

Your head suddenly feels too damn big, and when you shake it, you're afraid it might just snap off and roll away. “No, I'm good,” you manage to grind out, but you're not at all.

Because you remember.

All of it.

The good.

And the not so good.

Stulls Cemetery. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to stem the tide of crashing images, but that only makes it worse.

_“It's okay, Dean. I've got him.”_

Your eyes fly wide. 

“Oh, God, Sam, no!”

“Dean?!” Sam's on full alert now, sitting there, his forehead all crinkled up, one hand behind your head, the other scribing little circles across your chest. “What's goin' on? Man, you're scarin' me!”

“Gimme a minute.”

You struggle to focus on the room, the stained ceiling, the wallpaper covered in stylized Native American totems in orange, brown and turquoise; it couldn't be more effin' racist, totally insensitive.

The heater fan _ticks ticks ticks_ away in its housing, the bearings shot. 

A TV mumbles from the next room, sit-com laugh-track hell bleeding on through.

It seems to help slow the floodtide, so you wave Sam away. 

“Sensory overload or something,” you say, and you're satisfied you sound a little more relieved than terrified.

If you can control what's happening, maybe you'll be okay. If you get a handle on it, it'll pass.

You sit up and swing your legs over the bed, pasting on a smile and sparing a glance to Sam as reassurance.

Sam smiles back, but he's got that look, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth, and then it hits you again.

Hi-def regret thunders through you, and you gasp, but there's no air and the politically incorrect wallpaper closes in. The bed goes sideways and you're going down, you want to cry out, for your Sam, but you can't, his name, words themselves, eluding your traitorous tongue. You flail for something real, something safe, but you can't snag onto anything. 

You feel yourself spiraling into the Abyss, but at the last nanosecond your grasping fingers catch a tiny fold of warm softness.

“Dean!”

You remember how to breathe, a little, though your lungs protest at the harsh intake of air. Your fingers wrap themselves around Sam's flannel-clad upper arm, and slowly, surely, the bed sort of stabilizes. You'd puke if there'd been anything in your gut, but you fight the dry heaves anyway.

“Dean!? C'mon, answer me!”

“Sorry,” is all you can wheeze out. You crack open an eye as the dizziness barely subsides. Sam's staring down at you, wide-eyed.

“What's wrong? What do I do?”

Sam's gone from ecstatic to freaked, barely a step away from full-on panic.

You look away to study the ancient General Electric TV hanging from the wall, one of the ones with the AM/FM radio built in.

“I remember, Sammy. Everything.”

Sam flops to the bed, a long arm wrapping around your shoulders. “That's good, right?”

You look in any direction but Sam's, fighting to examine every detail of the room. “It's too much. There's more than there ever was. Too bright, too strong.”

Sam grips you tighter. “You mean your memories? Dean, I don't get it.”

You try to explain what it feels like without focusing too much on any memory in particular. You look at the bedspreads, the drawer pulls on the battered dresser, the shitty little one-cup coffee maker as you try to explain how overwhelming it is, this re-assimilation or whatever the fuck, and you spare a quick look to Sammy, his eyes wide, his mouth a tight line of determination.

“Rowena,” Sam mutters, rolling from the bed and fumbling for his cell. “Something's off with that fucking spell. Hang on, man, okay?”

You nod, but it's getting harder to maintain focus. You start to run through the process of pulling and re-building the Impala's carb as Sam paces the room like a caged animal, his cell pressed to an ear and looking so small in his big hand. 

Your half-assed re-direction thing works, a little, but you know it's only a matter of time before you lose it. 

You grab one of the pillows and hug it to your chest, squeezing your eyes closed and straining to envision the Quadrajet, its tarnished primaries and secondaries, throttle links and idle adjustments, the pain in the ass kickdown switch that's always fucking up, though that's not what fills your mind's eye.

There's nothing but smoke and ash, surging flame, the stench of sulfur and scorched flesh. An anguished chorus of wails and entreaties rising and falling in a sickening wave. Sibilant laughter, your own, and the taste of blood, warm and thick and copperfresh.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?"

“Tell her to hurry. Tell her, 'cause I'm rememberin' Hell.”

**~~~ * SW-DW * ~~~**

With a flourish, Rowena tosses a handful of something red into her scrying bowl. There's a flash, and as she chants in what sounds like Esperanto but can't be, she uses a thumb to scribe something onto your forehead with glorified goat blood.

“There now,” she coos, looking around and finally wiping her hands on the long hem of Sam's un-tucked flannel.

“For fuck's sake!” Sam protests.

“Oh, you've plenty of those plaid horrors, Samuel. And more to be had at any of those dollar stores you no doubt frequent.”

Sam mutters under his breath as he shrugs out of the flannel.

“So, that should sufficiently sublimate the re-integration process,” she quips, carrying her bowl into the bathroom.

“Why didn't you tell us there'd be complications?” Sam calls out, smoothing the front of his v-neck. “He could've died!” He studies your forehead for the first time, an odd expression lodging on his face.

“I think I feel better,” you say, though your head still feels ready to explode and whatever's on your forehead's starting to itch like crazy.

Rowena peers around the bathroom doorframe. “Don't be touchin' the sigil, dear. It must remain undisturbed until the process is complete.” She disappears and the toilet flushes a moment later.

“And how long'll that be?” Sam demands, stalking toward the bathroom, fists clenched.

“Oh, how long's a piece 'o string, then?” Rowena glides from the bathroom, wiping out her bowl, and then her hands with a motel towel, casually dropping it to the carpet. “Based on dear Dean's adverse reaction to a simple anti-obliviation spell, my refinement was rather powerful. I s'pose I should've taken into account that some of yer memories mighta been a _wee_ bit intense.”

Sam throws his hands up. “A wee bit? Fuck, Rowena! As if you didn't know.” 

“Now, now, no need for such language, Samuel. Honestly, most people would be ever so grateful for a set of shiny-bright memories. But never fear, I've compensated appropriately, so you shouldn't be needin' to make any more frantic calls for help.” She eyes Sam from head to toe and back again. “I'd have thought ya were made'o stronger stuff.”

Sam plants his fists on his hips. “Ya know—”

“How long?!” you interrupt, heaving yourself from the bed and inordinately pleased that you don't fall over. Sam's at your side in an instant, a big hand steadying you.

Rowena shrugs as she carefully repacks her spellbag. “To be absolutely certain? Not less than thirty-six hours.”

“What?” you and Sam say at the same time.

You peer into the mirror over the dresser, more than a little pissed that Rowena's sigil covers most of your forehead, and one small portion of it resembles a simplified, but obvious, cock and balls.

“What the fuck?” You whirl around to find Rowena smiling demurely as she fastens her cape.

“A bit 'o artistic license, my dear. Do'na worry, yer still pretty.”

“Sam!?”

Sam strides over to Rowena, arms folded across his chest. “You knew this could've gone sideways, but you didn't say a word!”

Rowena arches an eyebrow. “Mayhap I might've been able to at least mention such a possibility, but ya shoved me inta that smelly cab so fast I dinna have the chance.”

“One of these days—” Sam begins.

“Oh, pish.” Rowena trails a finger down the center of Sam's t-shirt, stopping and pausing on the waistband of his jeans. “I had no way o' knowin' yer dear Dean's psyche was so fragile. Besides, it was rather clear that you two were more interested in findin' a love nest than discussin' the complexities inherent in memory re-integration.” She hooks her finger just inside Sam's waistband and licks her lips.

“Well thanks for the housecall.” You firmly grasp Rowena's elbow and guide her toward the door. “We'll keep ya posted.”

Sam tosses the spellbag, which Rowena deftly catches as you open the door. 

“I will definitely speak to yer Mum about yer manners. Or lack thereof.” She steps onto the threshold, smoothing her cape with her free hand. “Are ya certain ya're wantin' me to disappear into the night? I could remain—”

“No!” you bark out, grabbing the door.

“Hang on,” Sam says, clearly not happy for it. “If there's a chance of further complications, it might make sense if she hung around for a while.”

“I”m fine,” you answer, and though the rush of memory has receded to a dull buzz, you're far from all right, but you definitely don't want to have another relapse, which won't do either you or Sam any good. Admitting aloud that you need Rowena, though...

Rowena harrumphs from the doorway. “Do ya always take this long to make up yer minds?”

Sam shoots you a glance, and the set of his mouth is all you need to know that he's made the decision. “Yeah, well, it makes sense to keep you close, until morning at least.”

“That would be sufficient, and I s'pose I can make the time.” Rowena steps inside, but Sam rushes up and gently guides her out onto the concrete stoop. 

“We'll get you a room,” Sam rumbles. “Have the desk clerk put it on our tab.”

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Please, Samuel. I do'na need yer charity. I've been 'round long enough to charm me way into any inn that I please.” She looks around and frowns. “Though this hovel wouldn't be me first—or fifth—choice. But the sacrifices we make for friends, yeah? Oh, and it looks like one of the rooms next to yers is available. How fortuitous!” She whirls around in a flurry of satin and disappears into the gloom.

“Fucking witches. Can't stand 'em.” You rub at your temples, circling back to the bed and dropping gratefully into it. 

“Leave the sigil alone,” Sam warns, kneeling down to root around in the mini-fridge. With a familiar clinking, he extracts a handful of tiny bottles and sits next to you on the bed. “It's all bottom shelf stuff, but there's plenty of it.” He passes over two bottles of Four Roses. “Up for it?”

“Hell, yeah.” The cheap bourbon burns your throat and belly, and the brainbuzz kicks down a notch, in volume at least. “I suppose it coulda been worse.”

“M'not sure how,” Sam says, studying the ceiling. “She knows what you've been through, and she just cast the most generic version of the spell possible. She could've augmented it, but she didn't. Fuck, I don't get it.”

“Well, I'm glad you don't because then you'd be an old, red-headed, duplicitous witch. And I ain't into that.”

“She just pisses me off.”

“I can tell.” You clap a hand to Sam's thigh and squeeze. “But I think she likes you.”

“Gross.” Sam makes quick work of his pair of bottles before jumping up and locking the door, throwing the deadbolt and chain for good measure. He fusses with the curtains, making sure they're fully closed, before killing the overhead light. The nightstand light clicks on a second later, and you watch as he makes another trip to the mini-fridge, using his t-shirt to carry the remaining booze back to the bed. He kicks off his shoes, grabbing the pillows from the other bed and adding them to yours. 

You down a bottle of Cuervo as Sam plumps the mass of pillows against the headboard, motioning for you to lean back. You comply, partly because you're dead tired and your head's pounding, but mostly because Sam wants you to.

And you've put him through enough grief for the last few days.

“This okay?” Sam asks, finally settling in next to you. 

“Yeah.” 

“You sure?”

“I said yeah.”

“How's the head?” Sam's hand flies up, and he barely stops it an inch from your temple. His expression crumples, and before he has time to re-think and pull it away, you lean your forehead into his long fingers.

“Throbbin' like hell, and my eyeballs feel like two piss holes in the snow, but other than that, aces.” 

You do your best to smile, and it musta come out okay because Sam smiles back. You close your eyes, angling your neck a little and Sam catches on, his big hand barely grazing your temple before sliding down to gently cup the back of your neck.

“Dammit, Dean.” 

Sam rolls on his side and touches his forehead to yours, his breath hot and a little ragged. He pauses there, as if held by some unseen force, and before he can pull away, you lean in, but the angle is all wrong and you end up kissing his stubbled chin. 

Sam jerks a little, blinking down at you, pleading for permission for something that never needed any.

“It's okay,” you breathe, shifting around against the pillows. Sam's about to say something but you smother his words with your mouth, and he tastes of sunshine and cheap bourbon and need. You find you can't remember why you ever stopped kissing Sam, why you ever stopped, _period_ , though there's no shortage of bullshit that might explain it, so you keep kissing him, as hard as you can, realizing that nothing, not angels or demons, not even Hell itself, should come between you.

You wish you didn't feel like shit, but then Sam feels amazing, like he always has, and you can't believe that you'd ever forgotten it.

Sam's little moans fill your mouth, and one hand's sliding up and under your t-shirt. You want to keep going, keep kissing your boy forever, but you're stating to fuzz out, whether from Rowena's augment or a lack of oxygen or just because you're too damn wasted. You break the kiss as tenderly as you can, sucking in a deep breath as you flop back into the pillows.

Sam opens his eyes, a little breathless himself. He bites his bottom lip, forehead knitting together in obvious consternation.

“It's okay,” you reassure, waving a hand. “Just a little wrecked.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, sure. Sorry I came on so—”

“I said it's okay.”

Sam drops to the mattress with a huge sigh. “I shouldn't have—I mean, I knew that you'd been spelled, and that you weren't one hundred percent, but I just couldn't help myself. I mean, I was so happy to get you back—”

“Sam?”

He blinks at you, suddenly looking more like fourteen rather than thirty-four, and your heart skips a beat.

“You're good, Sammy. I'm fine, and you sure as shit didn't take advantage of me, if that's what's kicking around that over-sized grapefruit of yours.”

Sam snorts. “It's just that we don't, you know—”

“Do this,” you say, “like we used to.”

“Yeah.” Sam stares off into space for a long minute. “I miss it.” He looks at you, his expression an uneasy blend of hope and shame.

You're about to launch into what's sure to be a lengthy recitation of all the crap you've both been through, and how that somehow explains why you've bled away from each other, but at the last second, you think better of it. 

“Me too,” you offer, and Sam's clearly a little surprised by your brevity. 

“Really?”

You nod and shrug. 

Sam's smile is paper thin. “Sometimes, well, a lot of times, when we're back at The Bunker—”

“You mean home?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, whatever. Sometimes I just don't want to sleep alone. I know how much you love your room, your space, and you've got it all set up just the way you want it—”

“Sam.”

“Can we ever get back to the way we used to be? Before Hell? Before Purgatory, The Mark? 'Cause I want to. Hell, man, I _need_ to.”

“Sure that's what you want?”

Sam's face scrunches up as if he'd sucked down a gallon of dream root. “Are you serious? Of course!”

The air hangs heavy in the room, and you both sit there, suddenly mute. You think you can almost hear the gears of Sam's marvelous brain clinking away, so you wait, and wait again, mostly because you want him to do the talking. 

He's better at it anyway.

“I just keep thinking that after all we've been through, there's still no one else that I'd rather be with. No one knows me like you do, understands me, The Life, _our life_ , and no one ever will.”

You grab a random little bottle, twist off the cap and down the contents in two gulps. Your sigh is far louder and significant than you mean it to be. “Sammy, man, you gotta know by now you're never gonna get rid of me, right? I ain't goin' nowhere. You wanna start sharin' a room? A-OK with me. We're gonna need a bigger bed, and there's gotta be some serious ground rules, but let's grind out all that shit, like tomorrow, maybe?”

Sam nods. “Sure, yeah, sounds good to me. And sometime real soon, we're gonna have to talk about what's up with Mom. Okay?” 

“As long as we're stocked up on beer, I'm game.”

“Alright.” Sam studies your face, tilting his head and creasing his brow. “Sure you're doin' okay? Still lookin' a little peaked.”

“I'm good.”

“For real? 'Cause you say that all the time.”

You nod and smile. “It'll just have to run its course,” you insist, deciding that it's a great time to kick off your boots. “It's a bitch to have all your memories dumped back into your noggin in a matter of hours.” You clink your bottle of Cuervo to Sam's Popov. “Whatever she did just now, it did the trick.”

“I should've known there might've been problems—”

“Pump the brakes, Sasquatch. If you wanna blame anyone, blame _me_ for runnin' off into the woods after that little bitch of a witch on my own.”

Sam's silent for a moment and then he downs the vodka. “I'm just glad you're gonna be okay. I don't know what I would've done if I'd lost you.”

“Sam—”

“Be careful, Dean. Please. I can't lose you, man. I can't.”

“Like I said, I'm not going anywhere,” you answer smoothly, and Sam leans into you, his head on your shoulder.

You both finish off the rest of the little bottles of booze, and at least now you know where part of the buzz in your head's coming from.

Sam's wrapped an arm around your back while his other hand's found its way under your t-shirt to trace lazy circles on your belly.

_“Sam, we can't do this.”_

_“But Dean, please. I fucking love you man. Always have.”_

_“Sammy, we can't—I—can't let it happen.”_

_“Dean—”_

The memory's clear and crisp in your mind, but not unpleasant to look at: the Wendigo, Sammy taking the wheel of the Impala, that night in the Best Western off the 470 outside of Denver. You let it play out hesitantly, anxious that things'll go south again if you do...

But there's no out-of-control rush, no boundless flood of memory.

Sam slowly works his way onto his side, head buried in the crook of your neck, one arm cradling your waist, a long leg thrown over yours. You can tell by the rhythm of his breathing that if he's not already asleep, he soon will be.

You can barely reach the light on the nightstand, and when you shift over to reach it, Sam stirs, a soft moan escaping him as he nuzzles into you some more before falling silent. You snap off the light, squirming on the lumpy mattress to find a comfy position.

It's a little chilly in the room, but Sam's a furnace, always has been, and you know he'll keep himself wrapped around you all night long. 

Just like he used to. 

Back when you'd shared motel beds as kids. Or the backseat of the Impala. 

Or that bedroom that was always yours and Sam's at Bobby's old, long-gone house.

Your mind's still a barreling train of memories swirling around, but there's no sense of helplessness, no feeling of drowning in a roiling sea of your own history. And that painfully sharp quality to your restored memories seems to have lessened enough so that they not longer, well, hurt. 

Whatever Rowena did, it'd worked. 

_The bitch_.

You close your eyes and dare to recall those sunny days, which seem so long ago, when it was just you and Sammy in the Impala, a seemingly endless ribbon of two-lane blacktop, small-change hunts with nothing but ghosts or death echoes or the occasional poltergeist. 

How beautiful and perfect it all was, your Sammy smiling beside you, looking at you like you're the light of the world.

And you knew it then, just like you always did. 

Just like you know it now.

All that's ever mattered.

Maybe you can get it back.

And you remember...

 

_~*~ fin ~*~_

**Author's Note:**

> The notion of a spell 'restoring' Dean's memories intrigued me from the get go, and I quickly began to wonder what might happen if something went wrong. Did Dean's memories just 'pop' back into place instantly, which I believe is heavily implied by the episode narrative, or did they flow back in as they left, in reverse order? Or perhaps jumbled up, every which way? What if the memories were 'restored' to pristine condition as they were replaced, crystal clear and vibrant? So yeah, I sometimes think too much about this stuff, but this is what I came up with. It's also the first original piece I've written in three years. 
> 
> So it's established wincest, as most things are for me (if I can manage to write them down), since I've had the boys together as early as “Wendigo” and never later than “Playthings”. I tend to suck at titles, so what I ended up with is a mangle of a quote from Khalil Gibran: “If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together, and you shall sing to me a deeper song.”


End file.
